Confusion still sits on their faces. And Mandy still looks highly amused.
I throw out more words. “I don’t know exactly how it’s all going to work.”
I stop talking. Melanie and Mandy don’t say anything.
After about thirty seconds, Mandy breaks the silence. “That sounds hot.” She raises her eyebrows. “A scandalous after-hours arrangement.”
I shake my head, unable to hold back a laugh.
Melanie, laughing as well, asks, “When do you start this after-hours treatment?”
I lean back on the bed. “I don’t know. He hasn’t decided yet if he wants to do it for sure.”
The smile on Melanie’s face turns into a look of concern. “So he might not help you? What are you going to do then?” She shakes her head, talking quickly. “You can’t just let this go, Callie. You have to get help. Even if he says no—”
“He’s not going to say no.” Mandy is all glittery-eyed again. “He’s not going to say no to her.” She raises her eyebrows and bites her lip suggestively. “About anything.”
Melanie still looks concerned, but she laughs a little as I roll my eyes at Mandy. Then the subject is dropped. At least for now.
We grab our drinks (room service margaritas for Mandy and me and water for Melanie and baby) and continue on with our Girls’ Night, our very different Girls’ Night. A Girls’ Night in Florida…in a hotel room…with no DVDs or DVD player…where no one is wearing pajamas—probably due to the fact that we had a special Girls’ Night guest…
That brings me to the most different part about our Girls’ Night. It’s a Girls’ Night where he is right across the hall. Only about thirty seconds away.
I try not to dwell on this, on his nearness, as we continue our evening. I try…I don’t really succeed, though.
We continue to watch (but not really watch—talk through) Sex and the City reruns. Mandy gives us more details about Josh’s upcoming visit to Pierce, and Melanie talks about Doug and Abby. Abby apparently had some sort of panic attack during a school fire drill yesterday. She must’ve convinced herself that there really was a fire…that the school was going to burn down…that everyone in the school was going to die.
Her thoughts, her fears, once again sound all too familiar.
As Melanie finishes up the story, talking about picking up a crying Abby in the school’s guidance office, I can’t help myself. I break in.
“It’s time, Mel.”
She nods her head slowly. “I know it’s time. I called her pediatrician when we got home yesterday. He is supposed to refer me, well, her, to some sort of therapist early next week.”
I nod, grabbing Melanie’s hand. She looks so upset. So worried. So—
“I don’t want to think about this anymore tonight.” Melanie squeezes my hand and lets go. “I’m so ridiculously emotional right now as it is.” She puts her hand on her stomach. “Talking about this just makes me a weeping mess.” She smiles, a teary smile. “I need to not be sad about Abby going to see a doctor. I need to just be hopeful that we find a doctor who can help her.” She shakes her head quickly and wipes the back of her hand over her eyes. “Okay,” she says in her authoritative, older sister voice. “New conversation.”
Mandy jumps right in…but not really with a new conversation. “Well, I’m hopeful too. Hopeful that Abby’s doctor is as, I don’t know, doable as Callie’s.”
Melanie laughs, and I shake my head at Mandy with a smile. “Different new conversation.”
And we do move on to a new conversation, several new conversations—about Mandy’s next few sorority events, my conference articles, and Melanie’s ridiculous work schedule.
My mind doesn’t move on, however. It stays on him. Where it’s been all night.
As we clean up and decide to get some sleep, I still think about him…wonder what he’s been up to this evening. Then, as Melanie and Mandy hug me goodbye before they go to their room (322), I stand out in the hallway with them...and I continue to think about him, even though I try to keep my eyes away from room 317.
After that, as Mandy starts walking down the hall and turns around to nod in the direction of his room, saying, “Totally doable,” I, well, of course keep thinking about him.
My thoughts don’t change as I begin my modified night routine. Thermostat and door checked. Him. Phone alarm on. Him. Teeth brushed. Him ---- worrying about me. Clothes out and nails painted. Him not wanting to be my doctor anymore. Inbox emptied. His eyes when he said goodbye this evening. Shower taken and lotion applied. Second set of silky, skimpy pajamas on. His kiss last night. Hair dried and prayers said and—
Him wanting to come over last night. Him wanting to come over last night. Him. Wanting. To. Come. Over. Last. Night.
Me. Wanting. Him. To. Come. Over.
Now.
No more thinking.
Grab phone.
Type new message.
Come over.
Send.
Wait for a response. Wait for a response. Wait for a response.
Did he get my message? Is he sleeping? What if he doesn’t want to—
Buzz.
New message. His message.
One. Two. Three.
Open your door.
Chapter 19
him
ONE. TWO. THREE.
Over to the door. Undo the deadbolt.
Open the door. Slowly.
And he’s here.
Blue and white checkered pants hanging loosely. Short-sleeved white t-shirt…not loose at all…clinging tightly around his arms…his stomach.
His eyes move across my bare arms, my tiny shorts.
Then his eyes meet mine. Hungry. Needing.
I start to take a step in toward him, but he holds his hand, his palm, up to stop me.
I freeze. Confused.
He squeezes his eyes shut and groans. When he opens them again, I can see regret…and resolve.
Oh my God. He’s going to leave again. He’s…
My head starts to spin. Suddenly very aware of my lack of clothing, I drape my arm across my chest, my hand over my shoulder. My other hand, the one still holding the door handle, starts to sweat and—
“I’ve been thinking during the last few hours, and I’ve made a decision.” As he talks, he steps into the room, closer to me, but not touching me.
Closer and closer. Eyes on mine. Still full of regret. Resolve. Desire.
He whispers, “I have three reasons for my decision…” He pauses. “So you pretty much have to listen to me.”
I stand still, still holding the door handle with one hand. I have no idea what he’s talking about. And my ability to think…to reason…isn’t working very well right now. Everything is clouded up by the smell of his cologne…the smell of him.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his hand start to move…start to move toward the door handle…toward my hand.
One. Two. Three. His hand…warm…burning…covers mine and lifts my fingers off the door handle. He moves a little to the side and allows the door to swing shut behind him. Still holding my hand, still looking at me, he shuffles around a little to kick off his shoes.
He stops shuffling around. I’m guessing his shoes are now sitting right next to my black heels, but I don’t know for sure. Because I can’t look. Because his eyes are still on mine. And he still has my hand. He pulls it up to his lips, brushing a kiss on my palm and then cupping my hand under his chin. Pushing my fingers into his cheek. Pressing my hand into the light stubble on his face.
He breathes in and out. And he whispers. “My decision.” He breathes in and out again. Eyes frustrated. “My decision is…that I’m not going to sleep with you tonight.”
What?
I start to pull my hand away from his cheek, away from his face.
He doesn’t let me. He presses his hand into mine, holding my fingers firmly against his cheek.
He whispers again. “You didn’t listen to my reasons yet.”
He pu
shes his face, his body, closer to me. Another whisper. “One. You haven’t seen my test results yet. I don’t want you to have any doubts in your head when we do this.”
“But I—” I try to talk, but I don’t get very far.
He cuts me off. “I don’t want you to have any doubts. None.”
Before I can open my mouth again, he steps even closer to me, his body only an inch or two away. His face, right…here.
He whispers again. “Two. I don’t want you to think that this was my plan…that I came to this conference to sleep with you.”
“I would never—”
“Shhh.”
And I do “shhh.” Not because he tells me to…but because he takes one more step in, pressing his body against mine.
My body reacts to his, moving closer, moving into him. Purple silk cami against white t-shirt. Silk shorts against checkered pajama pants.
Thin layers of clothing against thin layers of clothing.
So close to skin against skin.
His mouth moves right up to mine. Lips burning lips.
He doesn’t kiss me though.
He inhales to speak again. In a blur, I hear his words. I feel them.
“Three. I have this feeling that if you’ve never had sex, you’ve never…”
He trails off, his lips still resting on mine…his heart beating against my chest.
He whispers. “I’m going to take care of that first.”
My arms tremble. My heart pounds. My mouth opens in a gasp…a gasp that falls right onto his lips.
{John Legend comes in with “All of Me.”}
In a blur, we start moving back, back, back toward the bed. Lips touching. Not kissing. Breathing against each other. Grasping for air.
Just as I feel the bed behind my knees, I start to fall backwards. I clutch his t-shirt, pulling him down with me, pulling him as close as I can.
His lips begin to move frantically over mine. Over and over and over and over and—
Trailing kisses over my face, down my neck, he rolls off of me. His lips find my ear as he stretches out beside me.
“Callie.” He breathes into my ear, exhaling slowly.
My body shakes. Wanting. Needing.
I move my hands over his t-shirt, down his chest, past his stom—
His hands grip mine…stop them, firmly pressing my wrists against his stomach.
He sighs into my ear. Then he whispers again. “I already told you—that’s not on the agenda for tonight. You are on the—”
His breath against my ear is too much. I turn my head and cut him off, pressing my mouth onto his. A heavy sigh breathes out of him. Then his mouth starts moving impatiently with mine. My lips fight to keep up with his. I pull at my hands, trying to get out of his grip, trying to touch him, but he only tightens his hold. {“All of Me.” Refrain. Refrain. Refrain.}
He pulls his lips off of mine. “You aren’t making this easy.” He buries his head into the side of my neck. He rubs his mouth, the stubble on his chin, across my shoulder.
My head goes limp. My hands give up, stop struggling to be released.
He raises his face from my neck. “I’m up for a challenge, though.”
Before I know what is happening, he tightens his grip on my wrists and pushes up, up, up, tossing me onto my back and pressing my arms, my hands, above my head.
He’s not letting go. He crushes my hands against the pillow above me, now holding both of my wrists with one of his hands.
His other hand…now free…moves down. His fingers slowly slide over my neck, over my shoulders.
My breathing becomes heavy. Loud.
His hand slides down over the silky material of my camisole. Slowly. Touching every inch of fabric. Every inch of me.
He leans over, his body hovering over mine.
His mouth starts to follow the same path as his hands. Kissing and biting and rubbing and—
A rush of desire…need…blazes through me. My eyes close. My chest rises up to meet his mouth.
His mouth. Warm. Wet. Amazing.
Only the thin layer of my cami between his mouth and me.
My skin is burning. Shaking. Alive.
His mouth still…still everywhere, he slips his hand down…down…down…over my pajama bottoms…squeezing and grasping and—
Oh my God.
And pressing and massaging and—
And somehow my senses shut down and awaken at the same time. {John Legend gets louder and louder and louder.}
There is only this moment. And his mouth. And his fingers. And him.
Teasing and kissing and touching and burning. And—
My heart hammers against my chest, against his lips. Everything tightens and tightens and builds and builds and—
And…And…And—
Oh. My. God. {And louder and louder and LOUDER.}
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod.
OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod.
And releases. {Music blaring.} And releases. {Music blaring.} And releases. {Music blaring.}
And then—
{The song, the refrain…it gradually slows and quiets. Fades into the background.}
An extraordinary sense of calm suddenly overtakes me. His hand stops moving. His mouth stops moving. He releases my hands and puts his arms around my waist, laying his cheek on my chest. My heart slowly begins to beat at an almost normal rate.
I pull my arms, my hands, down from above my head. And I hold him, running my fingers slowly through his hair.
Eventually, he inhales and starts to talk. To whisper. “Next time we do that, there won’t be any fabric between us.” My heart rate starts speeding back up.
He raises his head, his body, and lies on his side next to me, his lips at my ear. “Next time, I want…I need…to touch you, to—”
“Why not now?” I turn my face to his, speaking in a rush of words. “Don’t you want—”
“Shhh.” His face, his lips, one breath away now. He whispers, “Callie, of course I want.” He groans, brushing his lips over mine. “I want. I want you.” His lips graze mine again, and then he slowly falls to his back, tugging on me to move with him, to pull my head to his shoulder.
He grabs my hand and holds it on top of his chest. His heart beats erratically under my fingers. “We have to change the conversation, or I’m not going to be able to stop my—”
“Then just don’t st—” I try to cut him off.
“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.”
After he speaks, silence fills the bed, the room. We lie there. Together. Hearts beating together. {Damien reappears with his refrain. He repeats it over and over.}
After I don’t know how long, he speaks quietly. “Callie, I really have been thinking about option number three. About—about being the one to help you.” He pauses. He breathes. “I want it to be me. I want to do this with you. I’m going to do this with you.” Another pause. Another breath. “I just…”
I wait. I listen. {Damien keeps singing. He—}
“I just worry…with the Mom thing…and—”
“But I’m not her,” my thoughts fall out of my mouth in a whisper. A very small whisper. So quiet that I’m not even sure that he can hear it.
The silence returns.
One. Two. Three. Silence. One. Two. Three. Silence. {Well, except for Damien.} One. Two. Th—
“No. You aren’t her. But the similarities…they’re so hard to overlook…to ignore.” Another pause. “And I couldn’t help her, Callie. I couldn’t stop her from—”
He breaks off. I freeze, my body becoming dead weight on his chest.
Is he going to tell me? Is he finally going to bring up the—
“She…she really had it rough at the end…her checking and worrying just got out of hand and she…she had some stuff going on that…that made her even worse. Much worse. And then she…she died.”
Tell him, Callie. Tell him that you know about his mother. That you know how she died. That you know that “stuff�
�� equals music in her head.
That you have that “stuff” too.
That the “stuff” honestly doesn’t drive you crazy (or crazier), though. That he doesn’t need to worry about you committing suicide. That you would never do that.
I open my mouth to talk.
Then I close it.
Then I open it again. And close it again.
{A Great Big World and Christina A. are back again with “Say Something.”}
I try once more to push words through my lips. Nothing comes out. Nothing—
“You two are different. And I really am going to try to do a better job of separating the two of you in my mind, of separating your conditions.”
Ask him, Callie. Ask him what he thinks is different between his mother’s OCD and yours.
{A Great Big World and Christina get louder.}
I don’t ask. And he doesn’t tell me.
He also doesn’t ask me anything. He doesn’t ask me to confirm that our conditions are different…doesn’t ask me if I’ve ever experienced “stuff” like his mother did. So I don’t tell him.
We exist together in silence. Holding back information. Lying by omission.
After minutes of this, minutes of silence, he speaks.
“Let’s get you to sleep.”
He starts “cooking” Chicken Francaise. After he gets it in the oven, I pretend to fall asleep. Another lie.
But I can’t sleep. Can’t stop thinking about the dishonesty between us.
I wait until I hear him breathing deeply, sleeping. Then I wait a few more minutes.
And then, I slowly remove myself from his arms and slide out of bed. I grab the remote control and turn on the television—turn on a young guy in hot chef pants making Chicken Piccata.
Then, carefully, quietly, I slide back into bed. Back into his arms. Back into a tangle of unspoken “stuff.”
Chapter 20
lying again
TODAY HAS BEEN ALL ABOUT lying. All. About. Lying.
And I didn’t get back into town, back home, until about an hour ago.
And it’s 8:00 p.m. I’ve missed confession.
So I’ve written down a list of my lies…a timeline of dishonesty. And I’ve been reading it over and over again for the last half hour…hoping to be forgiven. Hoping that he’s forgiven for his lies, too.
Checked Again (Checked Series) Page 24
